The Planner(56)

He went back into the executive box and drank some more beer. Inside, a couple of people were watching the game on a large television screen. James sat and watched with them for a while – it actually looked a bit more exciting and comprehensible. After a few minutes, some others came inside to join them.

‘I really don’t like the way we’re playing,’ said Robert. ‘It’s far too crowded in the middle and far too deep at the back.’

‘It’s appalling,’ agreed Adam. ‘There’s no width there at all, and the strikers are totally disconnected. It’s like they’re playing for a different team.’

James stared at his friend in admiration and, therefore, anxiety. So it seemed that Adam knew about football too! How on earth had he ever managed that? Along with becoming a successful commercial lawyer and buying a house in West London and getting engaged and running half-marathons and everything else, he had somehow found the time to learn about football – to make perfectly intelligible, albeit unverifiable, statements which other people would agree with.

‘You’re right. This is total fucking dogshit,’ said someone else, shaking his head menacingly.

‘We’re playing like bastards,’ said a man called Angus. ‘We’re playing like fucking gay bastards.’

Angus was a retail developer, and had a number of features which would normally be considered defects in a modern male, but in fact only added to his overall impressiveness. He was in his mid-fifties, overweight, unambiguously bald and had an alarming West Country accent. His big white shirt flapped in the evening breeze, and was difficult to distinguish from his skin.

James turned to Felix. ‘Is this standard? Everyone seemed so pleasant until the football started.’

‘Yes, this is generally what tends to happen. As they say, those who waste their youth attaining wealth are doomed to waste their wealth trying to attain youth. Football is one of the main ways in which men do that now.’

James watched some more of the match, alternating every few minutes from going outside, where it was authentic, chilly and confusing, and looking at the television screen inside, where things were warmer and more atmospheric. Either way, it seemed to James that Chelsea were doing badly. The red team had control of the ball more often, and the Chelsea players looked cross and were committing more fouls. The really interesting thing was that he actually minded – he was, he realised, worried about the outcome. He wasn’t necessarily enjoying the match, but he was at least absorbed, which was very nearly the same thing. To be concerned about something you have no control over was, he knew, psychologically ruinous, but it was starting to happen.

‘Do you think we’re going to win this?’ said James. ‘It seems very close. I thought we’d have scored by now.’

‘Well, I think it’s good that you’re taking an interest,’ said Felix.

It was half-time and, without anyone asking, a Korean girl brought in another tray of lagers. Some plates of food had also appeared, and people were eating high-quality proletariat food: mini hamburgers, short beef sausages, large potato chips and pork pies. Everyone was having a brilliant time and James could see why – they were all being intelligently looked after and cared for, they were being given the things they wanted, things that gave them pleasure, were perfectly legal and wouldn’t do them all that much harm.

‘Here, James,’ said Felix, calling him over. ‘This is Simon Galbraith. I think you two especially need to meet. You’re respected figures in the same field, and you both have a shared interest in growing the economy of South London.’

James shook hands with Simon. He was approximately the best-looking man that James had ever met – a graceful, youthful-at-fifty executive with tightly curled, lightly greying hair, a boyish but by no means flimsy nose, and science-fiction blue eyes that dazzled and disorientated. He wore a calm black linen suit, which didn’t reflect any light at all, and his top shirt button was undone, revealing a pale and slender neck above a dark tie.

‘I should also say,’ said Felix, ‘that it’s Simon’s hospitality we have all been enjoying tonight.’

‘Oh, of course – thanks ever so much,’ said James. ‘It’s really been a fantastic evening.’

‘So you’re the planning wizard that I’ve been hearing about,’ said Simon.

‘Well I don’t know about that. But yes – I am a planner.’

‘Well, I think you’re behaving very well given that you’re stuck in a roomful of property developers. I hope my colleagues haven’t been bothering you too much.’